


Caught With Your Pants Down

by Interrobang



Category: Overwatch (Video Game)
Genre: M/M, Mild Hurt/Comfort, Omorashi, Stink Kink
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-01-16
Updated: 2017-01-16
Packaged: 2018-09-17 19:59:38
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,784
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9340976
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Interrobang/pseuds/Interrobang
Summary: McCree had meant to go to the bathroom before they'd left; then he'd meant to go before they started working. By the time he was stuck in battle paired with Hanzo, his bladder was screaming and his options were dwindling. Good thing Hanzo's partial to a bit of a mess.





	

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you to my commissioner for the prompt! I hope this is to your liking. I haven't written anything like this before so it was an unfamiliar experience.

He’d been doomed from the start.

McCree had meant to go to the bathroom before they touched down, but he’d been distracted. He was too jangled up with nerves to take a break from counting bullets and checking the straps on his armor to get up and actually make for the cramped plane toilet. Instead, he’d stiffly sat next to Hanzo and jiggled his leg, trying not to let on what was going through his mind.

After the plane had come the waiting game. The agents were set up in their hidey holes, all squared away in little pairs, and McCree was left without a moment alone to relieve himself. Instead, he was stuck in tight quarters with Hanzo.

Hanzo, who was stern but friendly, a little gruff but equipped with a wicked sense of humor. Under any other circumstances, it would have been a goddamn dream come true. But at that moment, McCree was in cramped, frantic hell. They were sitting in a car, parked outside a warehouse that supposedly had Talon activity. The snow-laden streets were empty and there were no signs of movement in the building, but they still had to sit there and observe. For over half an hour McCree kept his gun on his lap, hands clenching to fight the pain of having his belt digging into his bladder while Hanzo attempted to start a one-sided conversation.

“McCree,” Hanzo snapped, bringing him out of his reverie. “What is wrong with you? You are unusually quiet today.”

“Nothin’s wrong, darlin’, just not feeling myself.” He was jittery. His leg threatened to bounce again, but Hanzo slapped his knee.

“Stop. You are shaking the car.”

“Sorry, sorry,” McCree muttered.

They sat in long silence again before Hanzo pulled out a thermos. The lid broke into two small cups, and the scent of hot coffee filled the car as Hanzo poured himself a drink.

“Coffee?” Hanzo offered. “My tea would have oversteeped, but I believe this will have lasted well.”

“Nope,” McCree replied tersely, steadfastly keeping his face forward, aimed at the building in front of them. “Not a bit parched at the moment, Han.” Christ, he really had to go.

It only got worse from there.

When the fighting finally broke out, it was almost a relief to be able to spring out of the car and roll over the icy pavement into position behind a hedge. Bullets and blades flew as agents exchanged blows in the firefight. It was a wild cacophony of violence. McCree’s comm was lively in his ear as the others talked back and forth from their respective positions.

At some point he was separated from Hanzo and the rest. The archer had split off to find a rooftop to snipe from, and McCree had attempted to sneak off to find an abandoned alleyway to relieve himself in. He’d been holding it for hours now and was _sure_ that there must have been some way to find a few brief seconds to take care of his problem.

So maybe it wasn’t his smartest idea.

He had his zipper halfway down when danger hit.

McCree worked well in situations where he could get a clear view of his targets; normally an alleyway wouldn’t have been a bad idea for McCree. It was a straightaway, like shooting fish in a barrel. But the alley he’d tried to find was littered with crates and stacked cardboard boxes and the dumpster he’d tried to hide behind only made the surprise more startling.

He’s swung around with his pants still half-open and managed to fire off a round before slipping in the snow and landing flat on his ass. Peacekeeper skittered away down the pavement, just out of reach.

The agents in front of him advanced, looming down the dark alley and filling the space between the narrow walls. They were all armed to the teeth and looked damned pleased with themselves for finding him so vulnerable.

Just as he was sure he was a goner, a volley of arrows rained down in front of him. One of the Talon operatives in front of him collapsed, screaming as his shoulder was pierced through. Another had the thick shaft of an arrow sticking out of one thigh, and that one fell to the snow, clutching his leg. The writhing only seemed to make it worse, and the third person, watching this, began to flee. McCree was quick to scrabble over to his gun.

He was rolling to his feet when he realized he was no longer in pain.

McCree’s stomach sunk as dread reared up in his gut.  He could feel heat trickling down his leg, soaking fabric clean through as his tense stomach muscles relaxed. His legs quivered when he realized he didn’t have to clench them anymore, and though part of him was mortified, the bit of his brain that had been running on desperation for the last hour was slowly coming back to the light of reason.

It was almost sinful how good it felt to let go. Damn him, but he’d been holding it in long enough that a quick spray wasn’t going to do it. He might as well have been flooding the desert. He stayed hunched against the alley wall as he finished up, hands hovering above his thrice-damned belt buckle as he debated the merits of trying to pull his dick out while it was still going.

He’d have been fine if it weren’t for the damn stain. At first it was almost pleasant-- hot, almost steaming in the freezing air-- until suddenly he was just colder than he’d started and chafing in his chaps. He shuffled his serape to cover himself and prayed for the best. There was still work to do, mess or no.

Hanzo jumped down from his rooftop location just as the situation was starting to register with McCree. The archer looked satisfied, if irritated. He had what looked like road-rash along one shoulder, and the unused sleeve of his gi had come untucked from his obi. It flapped in the cold wind like some kind of battle flag as Hanzo stalked over to him.

“Why did you allow them to corner you like that?” he demanded. McCree flinched.  “You are lucky I did not lose sight of you.”

McCree shuffled from foot to foot in the wet slush at his feet, avoiding eye contact.

“I, uh, _needed a moment_ , if you get my drift.”

Hanzo turned away, huffing angrily as he stalked down the street.

“I hope you got your _moment_ , gunslinger, because we are about to get busy.”

\--

The rest of the fight was torture after that. Hours of blaring gunfire and strategic kills later, and McCree was in physical and spiritual pain. Hanzo almost seemed to _know_ : every time McCree thought he’d found a second to sneak away and clean himself up, Hanzo would seek him out and interrupt him.

By the time the melee was over, McCree was a damn mess. His pants were wet, yes, but the rest of him was covered with blood and grit.

He almost thought he’d be able to pass it off as a tumble in the snow if it weren’t for the faint odor that followed him through the streets. He’d prayed that maybe the smell of gunsmoke and cigar fumes would drown it out, but still it lingered, his sense of smell hypersensitive with shame. The few other agents that were in the area had started to gather and shamble back towards the transport, but it was Hanzo that noticed his reticence, his sudden shyness.

McCree jerked to a stop in the middle of the street when a warm hand settled on his elbow.

“Are you hurt?”

It was Hanzo. Damnable, meddling, caring Hanzo. McCree took back any attraction he’d ever had for the man; the fact that he was involved in this particular mishap was just one slight to his pride too many.

“Nah.” McCree turned away, tugging his hat down low. “‘M Fine.” He paused. “Promise.”

Hanzo pulled away, studying him. McCree stood stock still.

In one dawning millisecond, Hanzo’s eyes settled on McCree’s pants.

McCree would have given anything to sink into the icy cobblestones beneath him at that moment.

He seemed about to say something when he was interrupted by Lena calling them. The rest of the crew was waiting at the entrance to a large truck.

“Are you boys coming?”

Hanzo’s hand tightened on his elbow, and before McCree could say anything, Hanzo replied for both of them.

“Actually, Lena, I believe we will have to meet up with you later. I need McCree to help me retrieve my spent arrows.”

McCree’s eyebrows about shot up into his hat.

She grinned before zipping cheerfully around to the truck’s driver’s side and hopping in. She called out the window: “Gotcha, love. Be seeing you, then.”

And with that, the remaining agents shuffled into the truck and trundled down the road. They wouldn’t be far-- reachable by comm if needed-- but McCree had a feeling something would keep them off the line for awhile.

They were alone for about half a second before Hanzo was dragging McCree down the road, hand still tight on McCree’s arm.

Hanzo led him down several abandoned roads to the door of a mostly-intact motel. The lights were dim, but the fluorescent sign on the street was still buzzing-- electricity hadn’t been cut off yet. Hanzo’s hand stayed on McCree at all times, and McCree found himself doubting every action he’d taken that led to this moment, starting with the cup of coffee he’d had with breakfast that morning.

Nothing about this could be good.

Hanzo finally got the door open and shoved McCree inside. There were two neat beds covered in simple blankets, an old television, and a couple doors that presumably led to a closet or bathroom.

McCree couldn’t do much but shuffle around in the open doorway, fidgeting with his gloved hand. There’d be ice in his prosthetic, now, and probably street salt he’d have to deal with later. But damn him if he’d even think of that now.

“At least shut the door, McCree.”

Hanzo was inside and running water in the little sink on the other side of the hotel room. His tone was resigned, but not malicious. And McCree was awfully cold.

He shut the door.

McCree was still standing there in his damp clothing when Hanzo walked out of the bathroom. His shirt was limp around his waist, still tucked into his belt, and McCree was startled to see that his expression was gentle. He held a steaming washcloth in his hands.

“Relax.” Hanzo walked closer, carefully guiding McCree over to one bed. Mystified, McCree’s knees all but buckled underneath him.

McCree sat in a trance as Hanzo started by gently removing McCree’s hat, setting it on the bed next to him. McCree closed his eyes as the wet washcloth went over his face, Hanzo’s deft fingers wiping away sweat and gore spatter from his cheeks. In the dark behind the hot cloth, McCree felt a knot in his brow untangle and smooth itself out. He was still high-strung, but the the ringing silence of the room was less oppressive, now.

The cloth rubbed soothingly over his eyelids, his cheeks, his chin, and McCree opened his eyes again to see Hanzo looking at him contemplatively. There was a streaky rash of already-scabbing skin across Hanzo’s chest, and it was red where it was exposed to the cold.

McCree reached one heavy hand up to brush Hanzo’s muscular shoulder. He flicked the skin with his gloved hand, tilting the corner of his mouth up when Hanzo hissed and flinched.

“You gotta take better care of yourself, Hanzo.”

“Tch.” Hanzo clicked his tongue and slapped the wet cloth over his shoulder to hang as he unwrapped McCree’s serape from his shoulders, folding it neatly and setting it next to the hat. McCree hunched. The tension was back: he was suddenly aware, again, of the mess in his pants. The damp patch was clinging uncomfortably, sodden denim chafing against his skin.

Eager to distract, McCree spoke again.

“Y’know they make these things called thermal undershirts, now, yeah?” His voice was less steady than he’d have preferred-- a little strangled. “I get cold just _lookin’_ at you.”

Hanzo’s hands came up to unlock McCree’s chest plate, and that was all he could stand-- McCree reared back, suddenly skittish. His hands came up to grip Hanzo’s wrists, holding them stiffly in place. Hanzo’s fingers flexed; an instinct.

“Hanzo.” McCree’s voice was quiet, falling dully on the ugly, threadbare carpet of the motel floor. He looked up at Hanzo with pleading eyes. “What are you doing?”

Hanzo’s gaze was steely, but resolute. He cocked his head slightly, as if his point was obvious.

“I’m helping you, McCree.”

“I don’t--” McCree started, breathing harshly. “Just-- don’t bullshit me. Why cover for me like that?”

Hanzo dropped to his knees. His bare torso was red from the cold; a drip of water from the washcloth still slung over his shoulder made a trail down his chest as it fell. His wrists were still in McCree’s grip, and it left him looking oddly pliable. The swell of his biceps was relaxed, the tilt of his chin haughty.

And yet, in some way Hanzo was offering himself up.

McCree breath came faster-- just a little hitch in pace, just a small whistle in his throat.

Hanzo’s gaze fell forwards, settling straight ahead of him to look McCree’s wet crotch dead-on.

“That cannot possibly be comfortable.”

Hanzo didn’t fight his grip, but McCree self-consciously closed his legs a little tighter. The leather of his chaps creaked and his belts clinked against each other ominously.

“Look,” McCree started, “This isn’t-- I don’t. This doesn’t happen.” He struggled to draw a steady breath. “I just missed a lot of opportunities, maybe had a few too many of those little cans of soda on the flight over--”

“McCree--”

“-- and then the shootin’ started and I-- I--”

“Had an accident?” Hanzo’s voice was mild, but McCree’s face instantly turned crimson. His hands shook where they were gripped around Hanzo’s wrists. Hanzo clicked his tongue again. “I don’t mind, McCree. In fact,” he said blandly, “I find that this situation may be to my advantage.”

McCree swallowed thickly. The last pathetic bit of air in his lungs pushed itself out of the way, and McCree was left slumped on the creaking motel bed. His hands dropped; Hanzo rubbed his wrists, but the movement almost seemed subconscious.

Hanzo’s eyes never left McCree’s face: they searched the crumpled lines of his brow, the tense line of his lips. He stayed on his knees, resolutely still, as he watched McCree’s slow crumble.

There were a long few minutes where McCree simply sat in the chilled room with his limbs folded into each other, regretting everything from the last several hours. The world seemed deadly silent: the city was evacuated, the streets cleared long before Talon moved in. Now, the only noises available were the distant squawking of birds outside the motel room; no cars, no foot traffic, no music or any other background noises you’d expect in civilization. Instead there was only Hanzo’s even, near-silent breathing as he sat on the carpet in front of McCree.

McCree startled when the tips of a few warm fingers settled on his knee. The sensation was dulled through layers of denim and leather, but still distinct. When his eyes darted to look at the blunt fingers on his leg, he saw that Hanzo was still respectfully holding his position.

“Your--” McCree stumbled on his words, confused. “Your advantage?”

“Well,” Hanzo started carefully, tapping his fingertips on McCree’s knee, “I will admit that the idea of taking care of you is...appealing.”

McCree didn’t know it was possible, but he slumped even further into his seat, back hunched and arms crossed protectively. His chest armor was still attached, but it rocked uncomfortably against him, loose in its locks.

“Great,” he groaned. “I’m a fuckin’ charity case. Good job, Jesse, you’ve done it again.”

Those same fingers swatted at him carefully. A second hand came up to rest on his other knee, just barely grazing his knee guard.

“You are not a charity case. I--” Hanzo frowned. “I am not explaining this well.” He gestured between the two of them. “We are friends, yes?”

“I thought so until about an hour ago,” McCree grumbled.

“You care about me?”

“Well, I-- I mean-- darlin’, that’s askin’ an awful lot--”

Hanzo stopped him with a single finger held up.

“You care about me?”

McCree pursed his lips.

“In a manner of speakin’, yeah.”

“And I care about you. Quite a bit, if I am being honest.”

McCree flushed-- this time it wasn’t so splotchy, just a little warm on his face. Of all times, Hanzo had to do this now?

“That’s lovely, Han, thank you. Can we please move on to the part where you’re not saying you enjoyed watching me piss myself?”

“I did not _watch--_ did I? When did this happen, McCree?”

“In the alley, right before the rest of the fight-- you shot the guys comin’ at me while I was out behind that dumpster. I was, uh, trying to take care of business.”

Hanzo’s face was suddenly an alluring fuchsia as he realized what he’d been witness to. “Sorry for interrupting you, then.”

McCree snorted.

“The hell you are.”

“No, I suppose I’m not,” Hanzo said quietly. “Just...let me take care of you.”

McCree desperately wanted there to be more behind this than “quite a bit” of caring. This was easily the most awkward situation he’d ever been in with someone he was attracted to, and he prayed that he hadn’t messed up his chance with Hanzo to just... _be_ with him, potential romantic entanglement or no.

Hanzo’s soft touch started to wander down McCree’s legs, winding behind his calves to find the buckles on his chaps. He carefully undid them. Surprisingly, McCree let him. He even slowly finished unbuckling his chest armor, setting it on the bed next to his other articles of clothing while Hanzo’s hands followed the flow of his chaps up his legs, seeking the second set of buckles holding them in place.

McCree had to scoot further to the edge of his seat to let Hanzo get behind his thighs, and it brought him closer to Hanzo’s face. Surely the smell would be getting to him by now, close as they were. Fresh shame rose up in McCree’s belly, making him fidget as the urge to hide himself reared its head.

“McCree.” Hanzo’s quiet insistence had McCree looking up instantly, eyes wide. Hanzo’s face was kind, but determined. “You are going to undress, and we will dry your pants. There was a hairdryer in the bathroom, and you can get yourself clean, and then we will rejoin the group.”

McCree smiled weakly. “And what about your arrows?”

“We looked, but they were all damaged or lost,” Hanzo answered. “Very unfortunate.”

McCree took off his glove and brushed his hand over Hanzo’s red shoulder. His palm, which had been in the glove all day, seemed impossibly sensitive against the cool surface of Hanzo’s bruising skin.

“And this?”

Hanzo winced.

“I will live.”

McCree shuffled over to the bathroom. The sink was in its own little area facing a mirror with a row of bulbs above it. A cheap hairdryer was plugged into the wall next to it. Next to it, a door lead to what was basically a closet with a toilet and shower inside.

McCree went in, leaving the door cracked behind him. He wanted to be able to hear if anything happened out in the room; after all, they may have crushed most of the Talon operatives in the area, but there was always the risk of a stray following them.

He’d intended to quickly shower and get it over with, and started the water. He undressed himself as the room started to fill with steam, fogging up the tiny cubicle. His belts opened up and fell to the floor, dangling instruments and all, and he draped his chaps over the toilet and set his shirt aside before pulling off his shoes.

All that was left were the pants.

The damn _pants_.

He sighed, scrubbing his face with blunt nails. Here was the point of no return. Hanzo was waiting out there for him.

 _To take care of him_ , a voice remind McCree. _Without judgement._

He brought his pants down with a grimace, peeling away the cold, wet denim. His underwear was soaked and clinging to him, and his face screwed up at the thought of holding them up to dry. He deliriously pictured Hanzo crafting a makeshift laundry line, pinning his underwear up like a flag of dishonor for the world to see.

He set them aside and stepped into the shower. The water was blissfully hot-- a wonderful contrast to the icy slush he’d been rolling through all day. He found a package of hotel soap and used it to scrub himself down, savoring the small lather he could work up with the tiny bar.

His hands brushed over his stomach, his hips, under his arms-- then skated over his groin. He knew he needed to wash-- that was the whole point of this shower, after all-- but was painfully aware of the inch of space where the door was still cracked open. After a quick glance at the door, he gave in and washed himself.

He tried not to linger, but it was hard to touch himself and not think about Hanzo in the next room over. Hanzo, blushing pink all over from the temperature change. Hanzo, who was willing to lie to their entire team to spare McCree any embarrassment. Hanzo, who cared for him “quite a bit.”

McCree leaned his forehead on the cool tile and sighed as water ran down his back. He gave his dick a gentle squeeze under the guise of sloughing off any remaining filth, but it was a little too tender, a little too lingering to be practical.

Maybe just...a little? He thought back to the alley: his heart racing, sure that death was finally catching up; the immense relief when his attackers fell like dominoes. Hanzo’s gaze had been intense as he’d turned his fierce eyes on McCree, and now McCree wondered what it would be like to have that intensity turned on him in other situations. He carefully stroked himself, feeling around gently under his balls, swiping away any sweat and salt and remaining dirt.

There was a loud knocking on the door frame. McCree let go of himself like he’d been shocked. His metal hand jerked in surprise and McCree watched in horror as the bar of soap shot out of his hand and flew right into Hanzo’s emerging face.

“Sorry! Shit, _sorry_.” McCree practically jumped out of the shower, scrambling for the soap on the floor. When he stood up, dripping water everywhere, he was surprised to see Hanzo still hovering in the slip of the open doorway.

“Uh.” McCree’s brain was being helpfully dumb, empty but for the klaxon ringing in his ears. He settled for faux casual, swiping his soaked hair back with one hand and settling the other on his drenched hip with the other. Never mind the fact that his dick was out and half-hard. “Howdy.”

The illusion of calm was somewhat ruined by the soap, once again, falling out of his grip. Maybe he’d have to check out that street salt in his mechanical joints after all.

To his surprise, Hanzo broke out laughing, snorting into his hand and half bent over as he did what could only be called _guffawing_.

“Oh, c’mon now, don’t wound a man like that.” This was the day of the neverending blush, McCree thought as he climbed back behind the safety of the shower curtain. He wound the plastic fabric around himself for modesty, then frowned as Hanzo just kept _laughing_. “Alright, it wasn’t _that_ bad, don’t give yourself a stroke.”

“No, I am-- you-- you are right.” Hanzo petered off into chuckles. “You have had enough of a day as it is. I only came in to take your clothes for you and bring a towel.”

“That’s mighty kind of you, Hanzo. Thank you.” McCree watched with some degree of worry as Hanzo picked up his sodden jeans and underwear from the floor, holding them out as he walked to the sink just outside the shower room. Hanzo left the door cracked open a bit still, and McCree could hear the sink running as Hanzo presumably tried to wash his things a bit.

He finished cleaning himself up and finally got out of the shower, toweling himself dry before wrapping the fabric around himself and peeking out of the bathroom.

And holy shit, what a sight.

Hanzo had McCree’s underwear held up to his face. At first glance it looked like maybe he was inspecting it, but then--

Was he... _smelling_ it?

McCree’s face burned as he watched in rapt curiosity as Hanzo slowly held his wet underwear up and gave it a sniff. At first Hanzo didn’t seem to know what to do with what he was smelling, but then, as McCree watched, he relaxed his shoulders and held it a little closer.

McCree’s foot squeaked on the tile.

Hanzo instantly dropped the wet cloth, which fell into the sink with a plop.

“Oh!” Hanzo turned to face him, body stiff, high cheekbones pink. “You are...finished, then?”

“Sure am,” McCree said awkwardly. “And we’re talkin’ about _that,”_ he said, nodding to the sink, _“_ later, partner, but right now I could use a little help gettin’ dry.”

McCree stood by as hanzo handed him the hotel’s hairdryer, hands brushing as they passed it.

McCree picked his underwear out of the sink and sighed, holding it up as he turned the dryer on low. Hanzo took an extra towel and was rolling his pants up in them to try and squeeze out the moisture.

They stook there for a long while. McCree’s skin warmed by degrees as the hairdryer blew hot air around the confined space. He closed his eyes and tried to relax into the white noise. This wasn’t so bad: Hanzo at his side, the both of them dealing with a problem. He was clean, he was warm, and soon he’d be dressed and on the road again.

When he cracked one eye open, Hanzo was hanging his pants over the towel rack and studying him.

“They seem dry enough,” Hanzo called over the din of the machine. “You can...probably put them on now.”

McCree smiled crookedly. “Thought you liked me like this.” He patted his tummy right above where the towel was tucked. “ _Au naturale_ , and all.”

Hanzo rolled his eyes, trying to hide a small smile. “I like you in any state that does not involve me taking a bar of soap to the face.”

“Yeah, yeah. Think I’ll keep this spa look goin’ for a bit, anyhow.” He aimed the dryer at Hanzo’s face and laughed as his hair fanned in disarray. “Step aside, partner.”

He and Hanzo stood side by side as McCree took to the task of drying the wet denim. He flinched a little when Hanzo’s hand settled on his back, but he leaned into it.

“Hey.” He flicked his eyes over to Hanzo. “Just...thanks.’

Hanzo looked surprised. “Of course. Would you have rather I ignored the situation?”

“Well, no,” McCree started, “but I wouldn’t’ve expected this whole clusterfuck to turn into something so damn agreeable.” He bumped Hanzo with his hip. “I’ve got you here, after all.” Hanzo pressed his face to McCree’s shoulder. It wasn’t a kiss, but it was some sort of affection-- enough to make McCree’s heart soar giddily. “And--” he cut himself off, huffing in embarrassment.

“And?” Hanzo prompted.

McCree smirked as he turned to Hanzo, leaning into his touch. “If you liked this fiasco, I’ve got a whole lotta unmentionables at home I could use some help with. Stinks somethin’ fierce.” He tittered as Hanzo’s face flushed. “Never could figure out those damn futuristic laundry machines they got on base.”

Hanzo’s fingers ran across a cluster of freckles on McCree’s back as he seemed to contemplate the invitation.

“I suppose I could assist you,” Hanzo said thoughtfully. “If you really needed it.”

“Oh, darlin,” McCree laughed. “I need a whole lot of things, and they all involve you.”

 

**Author's Note:**

> You can follow my NSFW blog at hhgggx.tumblr.com. I take prompts and post polls, ficlets, and links to AO3 in case you can't follow me here.


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